The Wolves and the Ravens
by MabelOverture
Summary: Sherlock comes back from an uneventful day to find John in a compromising and dangerous situation. The responsible culprits are suggesting something neither John nor Sherlock thought possible, and it could alter the lives of everyone involved. No slash, but feel free to squint. Set after Sherlock's return from the dead. T for blood, wounds, mild language. More characters later!
1. Ordinary

Sherlock had been out that night, John decided to stay in. Strange, because normally it was the other way around. John had said he just wanted to stay at the flat and read and relax, but Sherlock knew better. How trivial of John, to still think that he could get away with anything without Sherlock observing. John _did_ want to stay in, but it was because of a headache. Sherlock could tell due to the shorter-than-normal patience level John displayed, and the decibel of John's voice had quieted. Wasn't anything nasty, but enough to keep adventurous John inside.

Munching on take away while wandering the streets, Sherlock thought back on his own day. _Ugh._ Errands. He wished he could think back on a day full of puzzles and conceited brilliance, but not today. Without his more responsible friend by his side, Sherlock was forced to do his own dirty work. The bank, _UGH_ the bank. _I despise those people_, he thought. _Is it so difficult to really make that transaction? Of course I didn't bring my ID, you silly creatures, you should know who I am. Don't you read the papers? Give me the damn money._

It had been 7 months since Sherlock revealed himself as a very much alive french waiter, and John was back at the flat for a few weeks. Mary had needed to fly to Florence for some reason. _Always so vague, that Mary Morstan. _He thought. He didn't think much of it...he rather liked Mary. Which was, undoubtedly, surprising. Sherlock always hated the women John brought home...well perhaps not hated, but he was very much annoyed by them. Mary, however, was something different...she was charismatic and funny. It was like she was just on a different level than the other women...she really was great for John. Somewhere in the back of his head, he still wished he and John could have the life they had before Moriarty's death, but he was really quite alright with the one they settled in at the moment. It pained Sherlock to think too much of what John must have gone through when realizing Sherlock was dead...to have seen his best mate 'die'. So, Sherlock didn't think about it much. But if he did, he was comforted by the thought that Mary had come along at some point and brought light back into John's life.

But since she was gone for a bit, it made Sherlock un-admittedly happy to have John back in his armchair. With that thought, he figured he should check up on his temporary flatmate.

**How's the headache? SH** Send. Although he wasn't with him, Sherlock smiled to himself at the thought of John sighing in frustration at the deduction of the illness. It will _never_ get old, John trying to side-track Sherlock. And it not working.

**I really hate you sometimes. **Aha, yes, there it was. No shame befell Sherlock on the self-pride he encountered.

**Yes, but that did not answer the question. SH**

**Well if you must know, you nosy weasel, it's actually much better. I deduct that the cause of it was being around you too much, because now I can go run a mile and be just fine. **

Sherlock chuckled at the text, primarily the purposeful use of the word 'deduct'.

**Well you better pop a few ibuprofen, I'll be home in half an hour. SH**

He pocketed the device and turned the corner, heading for Baker Street.


	2. Desperate

The street was quiet and empty, save for a large flowing black coat and the tall man under it. Sherlock's steps echoed on the lonely pavement. They clicked 3 times when he ascended the steps to the door. Unlocking it, he pushed it open and made for the staircase. Normally he'd try and be fairly quiet when arriving this late; Mrs Hudson loved to scold him for being so loud at ungodly times, so he made a conscious effort to prevent it. Mrs Hudson was, however, visiting her sister for the weekend, so no such effort was made tonight.

He walked up the first few steps, too lazy to turn the hall light on, when he noticed something that did not belong. A...smudge. On the wall, next to the steps. A shoe smudge, it seemed, like someone scuffed it accidentally on the paint. In another circumstance, he'd assume it was the fault of John's regular clumsiness, but this was not the case. The scuff was brown. It belonged to a pair of brown leather shoes. Such a pair not owned by John nor Sherlock, for Sherlock preferred black and John owned only brown _casual_ shoes. And those shoes, Sherlock knew, would not leave a scuff like this one.

Realizing he was frozen in place, staring down at the mark, his eyes moved up to the door only 5 more steps ahead of him. He listened...it was quiet. Then he heard something that made his stomach feel slightly queasy and his heart quicken. It was a muffled voice, definitely John's, and a _thwack. _Someone said for him to be quiet in a hushed voice. So, they were expecting him. Sherlock immediately regretted not shutting the door quietly a few moments back...it would be such more advantageous to have the surprise factor. He gracefully reached the top of the stairs and, with a moment to think things through, opened the door.

There were three strange men, as well as John. John was on his knees in between two of them, each gripping one of his arms in an unescapable position. The third was standing behind him, holding John's head back with a knife to his throat. The one holding the weapon had brown leather shoes on. Sherlock grimaced.

"Hello. I wasn't expecting company." He said as he casually slung his coat on the rack. He did so for two reasons; to appear explicitly calm, and for modified mobility when the time came. He eyed John's position, mentally running through ideas on how to get him out of it.

"We're here for a reason, Mr. Holmes." Said the knife man. He assumed this was the pack leader, the one calling the shots.

"Oh? How strange, people normally come to see me for my tea." He walked unflustered to the small drawer table by the couch and opened the top drawer, placing his keys in and shutting it. Although he couldn't turn his head to watch him, John automatically knew what Sherlock was doing. _Looking for my gun._ _The bookshelf, Sherlock! The bookshelf!_

"I don't know what you think is happening here, Mr. Holmes, but you are not in control at the moment. I suggest you stop the charade and speak with me."

Unaltered by his statement, Sherlock migrated to the kitchen. He opened numerous drawers, taking out the tea along the way. Sherlock could always read John Watson, in almost every way. But the one thing that constantly stumped him was the location of his gun. He kept it in the same numerous spots, for the most part, but he didn't have a pattern on where it's next location would be. Sherlock cursed his flatmate as he searched.

"Well while you're here, would you like some tea? I've been dying for some all day, you really can't take this away from me at the moment. My desire is just unstoppable." He gave up on the kitchen and turned to face the men. He duly noted that damn knife was on his friend's throat far too tightly. He also noted John hadn't said a word since he walked in.

"I am not in the mood for games, Mr. Holmes. You of all people should understand that desperate people do desperate things, and those things can often be regrettable. Do you understand what I am saying, sir, or should I make it more clear?" The man's eyes were angry, tranquil, and yes, also desperate. It was a dangerous, dangerous combination. He was beginning to feel nervous at he and his flatmate's situation.

In his silence, the man tightened his grip on John. The knife bore down, and blood began to trickle. John huffed and started to fight away, but the other men strengthened their hold on him until he was still. Sherlock felt himself step forward involuntarily, a small adjustment that the man noticed. So it was true. The sociopath did have a heart.

"What is it, then?" Sherlock finally asked in a low voice. "What do you want?"

"I will ask you, and if you say what your friend here said, I will become extremely upset." The man replied.

Sherlock did not appreciate that they jumped John and interrogated him on God knows what. He especially did not appreciate the bruised skin on his face or the incriminating weapon stained with fresh blood. He waited a beat, pondering what the topic was, and spoke.

"Go on."

The man bore his intense eyes into Sherlocks, his chin lowered so he was staring out from under his brow.

"Where is James Moriarty?"

Oh. Well that was quite unexpected. Sherlock scrunched his eyebrows and made a face.

"What sort of question is that? He's both 6 feet under dirt and burning in whatever Hell exists." He said quite honestly. Despite his honesty, the man was not pleased.

"I told you I did not want the answer John Watson gave me."

"Well in my defense, I was not present when John Watson spoke."

"Drop the act, Holmes. I know that man is alive, and I need to know where he is. What he is doing."

"My good man, Jim Moriarty is _dead, _have you been living under a rock?" Sherlock spat. The intruder yanked back on John's head and dug his knife in, causing the victim to yell out and thrash.

"What do you want from me, dammit, he's DEAD! I watched him blow his own head off, I was two feet in front of him! Moriarty is dead, he's gone, his blood was stained across the roof of Bart's Hospital!" Sherlock cried. This was absurd. His mind reeled on how to get John out from under that knife, but he was coming up blank. A small sort of panic began to rise in him when he realized this man was indeed more desperate than Sherlock originally assumed.

"I think they're telling the truth, Jackson." One of the goons broke their silence, speaking to their leader. _Jackson, Jackson, Jackson._ Sherlock scoured his mind for that name, for that name to somehow be related to Moriarty's. Sherlock had personally, meticulously, destroyed the web that Jim Moriarty had created, and the name Jackson did not appear anywhere.

"No. No, I know he is not dead." Jackson said, his voice pitched.

"I have a brilliant idea. I happen to be a detective, did you know? Why don't you tell me exactly what you're situation is and perhaps my far superior mind can come to a reasonable conclusion?" He was becoming impatient. He wanted his flatmate back.

"You want to know, Sherlock Holmes? You really want to know?" Jackson hissed. "Ask yourself, if you really believe that that man is dead and you're currently living in an ignorant bliss, do you _really want to know?" _

Sherlock stared at him. There was no doubt that this estranged man truly believed that Moriarty was alive...but, why?

"Of course I want to know."


	3. Colors

"He called me, Mr. Holmes. From an anonymous number...but it was definitely him." Jackson lip quivered in manic.

"You can't be sure of that."

"I AM SURE OF IT!" He roared.

"Explain to me how he could have killed himself, right in front of me, and manage to ring you several months later. Think it through, man, you're in hysterics. Clearly you've been paranoid of his existence and you've finally snapped!" Sherlock was realizing there was no reasoning with the man.

"You've met him. You _know _him. There is...no one else like him. No one who could possibly impersonate him...he is, purely, a madman. I know that you know that. And I know that it was him who called me." He sputtered. Sherlock shook his head...this wasn't possible. He saw Jim do it, he saw the blood.

_I faked my death too...right in front of John..._

No. This was different...it had to be. He couldn't be back, he couldn't be alive...

The thought struck fear in the very core of his soul. He feared nothing more than that man. He quickly pushed the thoughts back to deal with later, and considered the more pressing issue.

"I-I fine, let's say he is alive, Mr. Jackson, alright? I'll play along here. What is it you want from me now? I don't know where he is." Sherlock found himself eyeing his friend, his neck was stretched back towards the assailant.

"What did he say that makes you fear his return so much?" He continued.

Jackson stared at Sherlock, his mouth turned in an angry grimace.

"I made mistakes in his employment, Sherlock. I thought I could get away with some things...before it all really went down, before he...made a real effort on my, penalty...that's when the game with you came to a head. He disappeared...I did think he was dead. I prayed he was dead, Mr. Holmes, but _he's not dead. _He's coming for me."

"Let's work together, Jackson, you clearly-"

"NO!" He interrupted. "If he ever, _ever_ got a whiff that I was working with you..." He gave a nervous laugh. "Well, you'd wish you never offered it."

Sherlock stood, his mind attempting to come up with reasonable scenarios of the night's outcome. What was his game? What was he still doing here?

"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes." Started Jackson, as if answering his unspoken question. "But he hates and loves you more than anything else in the world. He's after me...he's watching my every move. So I'm gonna cover my ass, and do what Moriarty wanted to do but never did."

They all moved at once. Sherlock leapt forward, Jackson dug his knife in, one of the goons lost his balance and fell forward, and John jerked his head and arms back. The knife missed it's intended mark, but caught the side of John's jaw in the sudden motion. Being a moment behind his flatmate, Sherlock noticed the action and decked Jackson right temple, sending him across the room. John scrambled up and fell clumsily towards the bookshelf. He ripped the books off the 4th shelf and fished out his .45. As he clicked the safety off and turned around, Jackson tackled him. The gun fell.

As John's back collided with the floor, he saw Sherlock battling with the other two men. He didn't have time to observe, because Jackson was striking at him with a fury. He tried to push him off, but he was pinned. He reached his arm out, hoping to finger the gun, but all he caught was carpet. Abandoning the search, he swung his fist at Jackson's neck and took him off guard. They rolled until John had the upper hand and swung at him again, hard. Taking advantage of his shocked state, John hurdled away from Jackson and hooked his hand under the gun. He whipped around to help Sherlock. He fired a warning shot.

"GE' OFF!" He yelled. The men stuck their hands in the air. Sherlock had been holding his own, but the two men would have eventually overcome him. John's breathing was labored with adrenaline, his jaw bleeding down his neck.

"Get down on the ground. Both of you, down, hands in front of you." He demanded. They obliged. One of them, however, was slower in doing so.

"Come on then, hurry up. If you think I won't fire this gun, then I dare you test me." He whispered harshly. Sherlock stood up and patted his lip, now split and bruised.

"What is that?" John said alarmed. Sherlock whipped his head towards the men at the tone of his voice, but the moment John's doubt was heard, the slower man whipped out a gun from his holster wickedly quick and aimed at John. He shot as Sherlock jumped on him, and the bullet narrowly missed.

"Get him, Jackson!" He yelled. John pivoted as Jackson threw him up against the wall, his head banging against it. He swung his body around and rammed him into the window, the glass shattering and digging into skin. John cried out as Sherlock wrestled the gun away from the goon and shot at Jackson. He grazed his shoulder, but the man barely noticed, a passion in his eyes. The two goons clambered out the door, yelling for Jackson to follow. For a strange moment, Sherlock thought he would. He threw John down on the floor and ran out to his mates, but nicked the .45 away from John's falling body. As he turned in the doorway, about to dash out away from the clustered mess, he aimed it at the injured man half standing and half kneeing on the bloody carpet by the broken window.

He shot. He ran.

Sherlock could see the jolt in John's eyes as the bullet struck his torso. They were wide and frightening. Sherlock registered yelling John's name as he saw him grip his abdomen and catch his fall with his free hand. Blood was covering his arm and body. Sherlock fell on his knees next to him, catching him before he flattened.

"No no no no no no" He muttered to himself as he turned John on his back. His eyes were strained shut, his face in a horrifying twist of pain. He was breathing short, shallow breaths and trying not to cry out.

"Jo-John tell me what to do, what do I do?" His fingers fluttered over John's body, at a loss of what action to take next. He could tell it was difficult for John to speak, but he did so through gritted teeth.

"Call an ambulance. I need-agh!" His veins were popping, his head thrown back against the carpet. Sherlock reached for his phone in his back pocket and told them to hurry.

"They're on their way, John, hang on, alright?" Sherlock couldn't remember the original color of John's jumper.

Any previous thought of Moriarty's return had completely vanished from Sherlock's mind. The overwhelming fear and panic he felt was not for his old nemeses.

What was the color of his jumper? _What color was it?_

That impending question filled Sherlock's mind, torturing him as he tried to staunch the wound.

_What color was it?_


	4. Lights

Sherlock was kneeled beside him, his hands on the small but damning wound. Blood was spreading.

John was conscious, a thing Sherlock treasured but at the same time despised. Wasn't there supposed to be a point where you couldn't feel the pain anymore? When it was too much? He was breathing very short and harsh breaths, his medical instincts attempting to calm him.

There were times in the past when the pain from his scarred shoulder would ignite and shutter through his chest and arms, especially after a particularly horrid nightmare or a flash of memory. Even though he experienced those periodically, he could still never fully remember just how much a gunshot wound hurt. He'd remember the blinding experience of it all; he hadn't been able to think. He couldn't hear anything. It took away all his senses except that ripping, excruciating pain.

And he never wanted to feel it ever, ever, _ever _again. But damn the world, he was. In his own flat with his best friend who was probably in panic code black. John had been through this before, so the second time he knew what to expect. He tried to keep it together, to keep his mind alert of what Sherlock was saying, but it was_ so difficult_. The wound this time was not in his shoulder, but his gut. There was more blood...probably hit an artery. He attempted to count to 20 in French to keep sharp, but he gave up after _onze. _

"Dammit, where are they?" Sherlock tried to peek out the window, praying for a sign of blue and red lights. He met only the dark sky of London.

"John, can you still hear me?" Sherlock whipped his head around as he asked. He was met with a small nod from John, whose eyes were still closed but not as harshly as before. His whole body was shuddering, especially his hands. When Sherlock first grabbed the falling man, John's hands were still strong and pressuring the wound firmly. Now, as he watched his dying flatmate, he noticed his shaking hands were barely a whisper.

"You're weakening, John." He said, his voice suddenly small and cracked.

"I know." John rasped in an exhale.

"Don't you have something for this? Something to clot the blood?" He blurted out quickly. He had been an Army doctor after all, didn't he deal with this on a daily basis? The roles should have been reversed.

John made a noise that sounded like a soft chuckle, but it evolved into a quiet cough.

"No, mate. I don't keep that sort of thing around." His hands were shaking only every few moments now. His breath was uneven and quiet. Sherlock knew it wouldn't be much longer. John knew, too.

Sherlock hung his head and felt his heart give a revolting pull. A tear escaped and fell to the carpet.

"John I am sorry. You were better off without me...I shouldn't have come back into your life. You...you had Mary. I've taken it all away from you with my return. I'm sorry."

"Don't you say that, you dick head." His words were slurred. "You know better than, anyone else. You kept me, alive, by being in my life. I was so alone, so thank you Sherlock." It was taking so much effort to speak. The pain was dulling as the life around him began to dim.

"Tell Mary 'sokay. She knows." His head lolled slowly to his side, the tremors in his hands stopped. Sherlock was crying. Not sobbing, not yelling, not shoving his head into his coat. He was just staring at the still John, his cheeks stained with runs of tears. He saw the lights on the opposite wall, he heard the sirens pull around the corner. But he watched John anyway, not moving. What was the point? John was dead. They were too late. He had fought so hard, Sherlock knew. John was a fighter, aways had been. But there had to be a line somewhere. This was it...after everything they'd been through, the emotional and physical turmoil they endured together, this was it. Sherlock would go back to who he was before John; a recluse. A sad, pathetic, lifeless man with barely a heart.

He stood up on his own as they burst into the flat, and stepped back to give them room. He felt so numb.

Although he cared for him more than anyone else in the world, Sherlock had underestimated John numerous times. John sort of loved it, though, to see his shocked or impressed face when he proved him wrong.

Little did Sherlock know, he had underestimated John again. But he was right, John was a fighter. And although there was a line somewhere, Doctor Watson had not quite reached it. John was still fighting. John was fighting.

And Sherlock realized that when one of the medics shouted that they had a pulse. He never allowed himself to feel hope...the universe was never kind enough to grant a welcomed outcome. But he couldn't help it this time, for Sherlock felt a rush of euphoric and crushing hope as they worked. His brows were furrowed and tears were still freshly dropping, but hope was flitting around him. Hope that John Watson would live to see another day, and live more days than Sherlock would see. That's the way Sherlock always wanted it to be...he just couldn't imagine going back to a life without his company.


	5. Stripes

He stared at his lifeless figure. Beep. Beep. Beep. White walls, ugly blue curtains, outdated gray tile. White wall clock. Pale John. His mind drifted...he couldn't help but remember.

They rushed in, gathered around John like vultures. He watched, his eyes hollow and the color drained. They lifted him on the gurney, rushed down those damned stairs with speed and skill. He idly wondered how they managed to do so, with such narrow and sharp corners. By the time they were outside, Greg Lestrade had pulled up to the flat, his face and skin riddled with worried lines. He ran up to Sherlock, and together they watched John loaded onto the screaming vehicle. Lestrade put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, and although Sherlock wouldn't admit it, the touch was comforting and helped him to stay grounded. On the way to the hospital, Greg rambled about the ungodly call he received from the Yard and how he couldn't drive fast enough. Sherlock really wasn't listening.

And here they were...well, Sherlock was. Lestrade had left to retrieve much needed coffee for the both of them. _Good _coffee, not the rubbish down the hall.

John had made it out of surgery, a lot of blood lost.

"He's lost almost half his supply, it's a wonder he even made it. Your friend is a fighter, Mr. Holmes." The doctor had said. Sherlock nodded that he knew as he looked at the streak of John's blood on the doctor's scrubs. It wasn't much, hardly a touch of red. He had watched pints pour out of his body at the flat, but this dash of blood on the surgeon was still somehow disturbing to him.

It had been a day. A good 24 hours since it happened. There were no leads on those savaged men, no trace of who they really were or where they'd gone. A watch had been put on all surrounding hospitals matching their descriptions, in case Sherlock and John had hit them hard enough to warrant a visit. So far, nothing.

John felt himself rise to semi-consciousness...it was so hazy. _Where am I?_

He felt something strange, like an immense pressure on his chest. _The hell?_ His instincts told him to think, to recall what had last happened. To put together the pieces, figure out what was happening. The...the fight. Yes, the fight, he remembered. He remembered seeing Sherlock's almost panicked face as his two attackers began to overcome him. He remembered thinking that he needed to get his friend out of there, out of that situation. He could not handle Sherlock being dead again...he barely made it the first time.

Gunshot? The smell of gunpowder suddenly overwhelmed him. Someone was shot...was it Sherlock? The men? No. No, no wait.

He groaned quietly as he both remembered the pain and felt it in the hospital bed. _Damn, it was me. I was shot. Ughh._

Sherlock was at his side quicker than he'd ever moved before.

"John?"

_Is that, Sherlock? _"Sherlock...?" His voice was so quiet, barely a whisper.

"Oh, John. Jesus." Sherlock put his hands on the bed rails and hung his head in relief. He wasn't sure he'd ever hear his flatmate's voice again, and although the volume and strength of it disturbed him, it was equivalent to the sound of singing angels.

"Sherlock, wha'appened?" His words were slurred and muffled by the oxygen mask. John slowly became aware of it and clumsily lifted his hand to remove it.

"No, John, no. Keep that on." He was far too paranoid of John's lungs halting to let him take that off yet. "You were shot, John." His voice broke slightly on the word 'shot'. His adventurous and persistent mind often wondered what it looked and felt like for John in Afghanistan, to have been penetrated by a small piece of lead and almost die. He was curious about it, really, but never really asked about it. After this time, however...after witnessing it first hand, Sherlock vowed to himself he would never think about it again. He decided he did not want to know what it looked like, even though he now did.

"Do you remember that? Do you remember anything?" Sherlock didn't want to test John's strength, but he needed to know how his mind was fairing. As if his answers to those questions would comfort Sherlock enough to stop his anxiety.

"Uhm..." John's voice was gravelly, his eyes still closed. He tried opening them...he wanted to see his friend's face. His breath sounded ragged, even with the mask on. His eyelids were so, so heavy. He tried to open them, but with every attempt he barely saw blurred white walls before they shut again.

"It's alright, just go back to sleep. Rest." He hated seeing this. His flatmate was always the strong one...the firm, strong, independent man who carried the two of them through even the thickest of times. Now he couldn't even open his eyes or breath on his own. It tore Sherlock down to the core.

"No...hold on." John hazed through the mask. He was determined...although sleep sounded magnificent at the moment, he needed to see Sherlock. Make sure he was alright. He felt Sherlock's hand placed lightly on his shoulder. It strengthened his resolve, that touch. He tried opening them again. It took a moment and a few tries, but he finally fought the heavy lids and looked towards the sound of his friend's voice.

Sherlock watched him fight, and saw the eyes that stared at him. They were foggy, incoherent...was he really looking at him?

"John...?"

"Mmm?" John was focusing on concentrating. He saw shapes, colors, that suggested Sherlock was leaning over him, but he couldn't make it out. He blinked a few times, trying to clear his vision. Curly, messy hair became more detailed. A signature white dress shirt, that was definitely Sherlock's. But it had...red stripes? That was strange. Sherlock hated stripes. When did he get that shirt?

"That your shirt?" He mumbled. Surprised by the off-place question, Sherlock glanced down at his button up. It was half covered in blood. He grimaced. Along with coffee, Greg was supposed to snag a set of clothes from his own closet for the detective. Being the flat was a crime scene, the DI offered his clothes to Sherlock as nothing could be removed from the Holmes'. It was a kind, unexpected gesture that Sherlock accepted on the fact that he never wanted to see John's blood again.

"Uh, yes, it's my shirt. It's um, well Lestrade is bringing another for me."

Greg? Was he there the whole time? When did he get to the flat? The memories were still hazy, and John hated not knowing. His eyes focused more, the fog clearing a bit. The red stripes formed into strange splatters of blood. His own blood. He groaned again, realizing it.

"Are you alright? Should I fetch a nurse?" The detective said, unsure.

"No, I'm just. I'm sorry for that shirt." Sherlock stifled a rare chuckle, but he couldn't help but lose a small smile. John was still there.

John reached up to take the mask off again, the feel of it's obtrusion bothering him. Sherlock gently but firmly took his hand and set it at his side.

"John, it's to help you breath. You are a doctor, aren't you?"

"I don't like it."

"I don't either." The slightly younger man admitted. John looked at him, thinking about the panic his friend must have felt in that situation. He remembered the questions Sherlock was asking, the manic in his voice rising at his own incompetence. _He didn't know what he was doing..._

"Not your fault, you know." John felt it needed said.

"I know that. But-"

"No. None of it. Don't argue with me, I'm right." He retorted in his most firm and determined voice, which still happened to be weak and choppy.

Sherlock let out an air of a chuckle and looked his friend over.

"You look like hell." He stated.

"Mmm."

Sherlock realized their conversation had probably exhausted the retired Army doctor. It was, admittedly, a much further progress than Sherlock expected. And he could live with that for now.

"Go back to sleep, John. When you wake up we can talk more about it." He saw a very small movement from John's head that equaled a nod, and with that he slipped under the morphine.

"How is he? Anything new?" Greg opened the door to the private room, bearing gifts of coffee and a bag of clothes. Sherlock accepted them graciously as he answered.

"He woke up for a few minutes."

"What, really? Was he lucid at all?"

"Mhmm." He managed as he gulped down the caffeine. Greg exhaled slowly and plopped into the chair beside Sherlock's.

"Well that's great news. What did he say?"

"Not much...he was confused I think, on the situation. But he saw my shirt, I think he remembered." They both looked at his pathetic and crusted shirt.

"Here, mate." Greg pulled out slacks and a similar work shirt. "The pants are my brothers, he's almost as tall as you. Might be a tad loose on you, but they'll make do." Sherlock put down the cup and brought the clothes with him to the bathroom. He washed his face and changed, feeling loads better without dried blood weighing him down. He looked up into the mirror, realizing his face looked as worn out as he felt. He hadn't left John's side since the man came out of surgery. He splashed water on his skin again, dried it with a towel, and took his familiar place in the chair once more.

The following 12 days, Sherlock did not leave the hospital except once a day to go on a short walk, and that was just on John's demands. After a day or so, John had become conscious enough to carry on conversations and thought processes, and days after that he and Sherlock were able to play cards and exchange memories. As the week bore on, although he was recovering, Sherlock noticed how hollow his friend's face looked. He had lost a substantial amount of weight, and the color in his skin was still pale. Even simple card games warranted beads of sweat from exhaustion. He never let on, but Sherlock truly hated this setting. He and John should be at 221B, playing these cards games and having a drink. They should be arguing over a stupid text message or laughing at Mycroft's latest charade.

Mycroft had visited once. He had made sure Sherlock was out on his walk when he spoke with John. They exchanged words on what the attackers insinuated. Mycroft promised multiple eyes stay on Sherlock, ensuring his safety. John demanded all eyes be on _him_, not John himself, for if there was a consulting criminal in their midst, they would not be concerned immediately with John. Besides, the two men were almost always together anyways. Eyes on Sherlock meant eyes on John. Mycroft agreed and left with haste, not wanting an exchange with his brother. When Sherlock griped about Mycroft during those days, not once did John mention their meeting. It shook Sherlock down to the bone to think about the return of Moriarty, the one man he truly feared, and John had no desire to resurface such an unpleasant emotion.

By the time John was released, both men were more than ready to return home. The first two days, Greg stayed as long as Sherlock had. After becoming comfortable in his recovery, he slept at home and visited before and after work. Now he helped Sherlock check out of the hospital with an injured man in tow. John denied the use of a wheelchair and instead relied on his friends to help him as he exit the doors, both on either side should he sway.

Greg explained the evidence found at the flat, and the place was cleaned up and good as new. No traces of the traumatic event were to be found. The men, identified by prints and a few drops of blood, were last seen in Ireland. Sherlock surmised they were fleeing, retreating as far as possible from London and the man that once practically owned it.

"You alright?" Sherlock asked John as they exited the cab and stood in front of the daunting step of 221B.

"Yeah." Came his short reply. He was breathing rather heavily. "Let's get this over with."

They began ascending the stairs, one slow step at a time. John realized he was feeling a tad dizzy, but the need for his armchair outweighed the need for rest. Greg followed behind in case someone were to trip. Sherlock readjusted John's good arm over his shoulder as he felt his sway slightly.

"We can stop-"

"No, no let's keep going."

Sherlock admired his determination, but despised his stubbornness. They made it in the flat and were on the flight leading to the door.

John misjudged the placement of a particular middle step and felt his body slip down, his head making for the stairs. Sherlock buckled his knees and held his ground as Greg lurched forward, catching his back. Together, the three of them recovered and made it up and through the door.

"You're a bloody idiot." Greg said half jokingly as Sherlock set John down in his chair.

"I hope you're not talking about me. You normally say that about Sherlock here." John retorted as he found a comfortable position.

"Well I am talking about you." Greg moved closer and stood in front of John, his eyes soft. "You call me if you need anything at all, you hear me?"

Looking up at his friend, John felt his heart sink a bit. When did he deserve such wonderful human beings as these people in his life?

"Yeah, alright. I think we're gonna be OK." He said back. Sherlock, making tea, clumsily dropped the kettle on the floor with a loud KLANG.

"Well, maybe we'll be OK." John smiled up at Greg, who shook his head with a small smile of his own. He patted John's shoulder, said something to Sherlock, and shut the door behind him. John rubbed his bandages absentmindedly. What a very strange life he was living. Thinking about that night, the threats those men made, and why they made them...he began thinking what a very strange life he was still facing.


End file.
